


Glenfiddich Slut

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Wild and Free [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: A bit of bloodplay, And drunksex, Biting, Bond's a wolf, Drinking, Glenfiddich, Hair Pulling, Injured!Bond, M/M, Nape porn, Nothing too hardcore though, PWP, Protectiveness, Q's a pup, Rough Sex, Tattooed!Q - Freeform, Tattoos, Though they aren't drunk, Vodka, could be hurt/comfort, top!Bond, top!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:03:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q patches up Bond after a mission gone a bit rough. Alcohol comes out. Sex follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Plot may come into play, but this started out as a 221B 00Q fluff ficlet and turned into a multi-chaptered 00Q fuckfic. PWP for now. Um...not beta'd or britpicked, because whatever, it's porn, and I'm happy. 
> 
> Written in Antidiogenes, mostly.

Bond sat heavily on the post-modern steel and dark fabric chair that constituted the only piece of furniture in Q’s cupboard of a flat - save for the mattress/box spring combo on the floor in one corner and seriously? _How old is this man?_ \- that he wanted to sit on. His side protested as it rubbed against the arm of the chair. Surprisingly, it was comfy.

“What would you like to drink, Bond?” Q flitted around the kitchenette, pulling drawers out and flicking cabinet doors open, muttering under his breath. The older man smirked.

“What do you have?”

“Tea. Coffee...no, scratch coffee. Vodka. Whisky-”

“I’ll take the whisky, thank you.” He glanced around the flat again, and peered into the dark walkway. “What’s back there?” The sound of clinking glass rang in his ears and fired up his senses, but he tamped it down. _No way he’s got anything good. Not with the state of this flat._ He sighed.

“Loo and master bedroom. I use it for my electronics. Don’t move. I’ve got a medical kit in the cupboard here.” More banging around. “Wherever the hell I managed to put it.”

Bond’s smirk turned into a slight smile. “You should know where it’s at the whole time, Quartermaster.”

“I’m hardly home long enough for it to matter. Besides, it’s not as though I go out of my way to get shot on a regular basis, so other than alcohol and plasters, I have no” - grunt - “need for the whole kit. Found it.” A solid thunk on the countertop made the Double O’s head crank around.

“Need help?”

“No!” The derisive snort Q let out sounded well used. Bond’s brows rose. “I don’t need assistance. You sit still, or I’m going to tape you to the chair.”

Now Bond laughed. “I wouldn’t do that, pup.”

Q rounded the chair, tumblers balanced in one hand, medical kit under the other arm, and a dark glint in his hazel eyes. “Do not tempt me, Bond. I do have gaffer tape and I’ve watched rodeos on YouTube.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. Sit still.” The hacker held out the glass filled halfway with rich, deep gold liquid to Bond, and kept the clear liquid for himself.

The scent hit the agent first. Vanilla, sweet, with hints of toffee and oak. He breathed deeper, inhaling the tannin scent of new leather and the sweetness of banana. _Oh...oooooh._..his mouth started to water as he lifted the glass to his lips. He watched Q as the man sat cross-legged on the floor at Bond’s feet and flicked the clasps of the tackle box open, flipping the top open first, then pulling out the removable tray. He reached for his glass and knocked back the three finger’s worth of vodka, no mixer or chaser. A slight shake of his head, and then he was back to work, fiddling with a pair of scissors and gauze. Bond stared at him, and drank.

He couldn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips, and Q’s eyes shot up to him. His eyebrows disappeared under his insane fringe. “I take it you are pleased with my selection.”

Bond couldn’t respond right away, because _God damn it, this was good._ He rolled the spirit around on his tongue, savoring the bright peppery taste, tempered with the smokiness and oaky flavors. He could even taste the lime and spices. Bloody hell. He swallowed before it got too dry. “I’m a fan of Glenfiddich. Didn’t take you for a whisky drinker, Q”

“On occasion, I indulge.” Q finally leaned forward and gestured at Bond’s bloody shirt. “Get that thing off and out of the way.”

The agent set the drink aside and obliged, hissing as the fabric of his high end dress shirt pulled and dragged dry blood away from the wound on his side. Once the shirt was off, he scooted forward on the chair so Q could have a better angle on the ragged patch of skin.

“Not quite a bullet wound, Bond.” Q saturated a clean tea towel with rubbing alcohol and pressed it against the torn skin. Bond set his jaw and breathed in deep against the sting, even though the motion pulled against the pressure the hacker was using against the fresh blood seeping from the abrasion. He reached for the whisky again, and took a deep pull, draining the glass entirely.

“Sorry.” The tone of Q’s voice made Bond flinch.

“Nope, don’t be. You’re doing fine.” Bond reached down and took the towel from Q’s thin hands. “Go get some more booze, for the both of us. Hell, bring the bottles. We deserve it, after that fucking mission.”

Q’s lips pulled up into a smirk. “Don’t we ever. Why did I even agree to it?”

“Because we took a train?”

“Possibly.” He stood smoothly and moved into the kitchen once more, and Bond turned away from looking at the man’s impossible hips. There was no possible way that his Quartermaster could have hips like those. Hips that just begged to be stroked, grabbed - _bruised just so_ \- fuck. He shook his head and pressed the towel harder against the wound, making himself hiss out his discomfort. He was not going to sleep with his Quartermaster.

No matter how bloody gorgeous he is.

Q returned with the tumblers completely full, and the bottles of alcohol. Bond distantly noticed the vodka was Russian Standard.

“You buy 21 year Glenfiddich, but cheap vodka?”

Q snorted, an happy sound this time. “Scotch is meant to be savoured. Vodka is meant to be swallowed as quickly as possible. Besides, it’s a holdover from Uni.” He peered at the label. “I like it. Tastes like the Devil, but makes it easy to forget that humanity is trying its damnedest to destroy itself.”

Bond watched again as Q downed half the glass in one go, and tracked the drop of vodka as it slid from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, then over that to his throat before a hand lifted to wipe it away. He’d much rather have done it himself, with his tongue. _Fucking hell, James. Head out of the gutter. NOW._ He smiled and gestured to the first aid kit. “What’s next, Doctor?”

Q huffed out an amused breath. “Antibiotic salve.” He plucked a crumpled tube out of the tray and spread the jelly on a wooden popsicle stick. “Just yell if I hit anything sensitive, alright?”

“Will do, Doctor.” Bond lifted his left arm and watched the man - had to keep reminding himself that Q was thirty, nearly thirty one, damn his young features - as he worked on his side. Steady hands, despite the nearly five shots of hard liquor in his system, symptoms of a really good hacker and a rather heavy drinker. For a moment, the agent wondered where Q put it all, or if he was actually part cyborg. Then he noticed something, something black along the back of his neck. “Bloody hell, Q, you have a tattoo?”

Q’s chin tucked in as he made an awkward face. “Uh, yes?” He glanced up at Bond, his eyes sharp. “Is that a problem?”

“Identifying marks.” One side of Bond’s lips turned up into a rueful smirk. “I had to get rid of mine, and I still can be identified by certain scars. What was the point?”

Q laughed, the tense line of his shoulders - _was there actually one? Q was tense?_ \- easing under the sound. “I told M that if I had to get rid of this baby that I wouldn’t take the job. I suppose they needed me badly enough.” He finished with the stick and tossed it onto the pile of garbage that was gathering at his side. “It’s not really bleeding much anymore.”

“Didn’t think it would.” He reached for his drink and drank, letting the liquor roll over his tongue like a lover’s caress. He set the glass down on the arm of the chair as Q bent forward again with a pad, medical tape already fixed to the sides. He let the hacker - _his hacker_ \- press the gauze to his side, sticking the tape to his skin, a job he’d normally do himself. And if those quick fingers lingered a scant second longer than they should have... it could have been the alcohol messing with his perception.

No need to tell him that he could drink the whole fucking bottle and not miss what happened next.

Q picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich, nearly half empty already, and took a deep pull from it, swallowing once. As Bond watched with ice-sharp eyes, the thin man circled around the chair until he was directly behind the older man. He ran one hand through close cropped sand-blond hair going to grey, from nape to crown, then gripped tightly to pull Bond’s head back as he bent down and pressed full red lips against the agent’s slightly chapped ones. On instinct, Bond opened his mouth, licking at Q’s lips - _cheap vodka and brilliant scotch mixing together, wet and hot and_ fuck - and coaxing them open...

Q suddenly pushed his mouth hard against Bond’s and opened his lips, allowing the mouthful of scotch to pour out into Bond’s.

Bond’s body went rock hard with a firestorm of lust as the hacker’s tongue followed the liquor, stroking against his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth - exploring and pushing, playing with Bond’s tongue, entwining in a delicate dance. His brain scrambled to catch up - _how did we go from caring for an injury to_ this - but when it did, it was rewarded with the feel of Q’s cool fingers dancing up his carotid artery, tapping the flesh and pulling sensations up to the surface. Finally, he pulled away, only to duck his head down and lick wetly at the pulse point just beneath his jaw. Bond swallowed the scotch, not caring that it’d gone dry on him, and moaned as his throat moved against Q’s mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, Q.” His voice had gone dark and raspy. “You little shit.”

Against Bond’s throat, Q smiled. “You are the shit, Bond. Getting injured on my watch? Not a smart thing to do.” He sank his teeth into the cord of muscle along the spinal column, and Bond’s body jerked as a thin whine escaped his mouth. Oh, bloody hell. Bloody hell. He liked this. His hands reached up and gripped Q by the back of the head and shoulder and pushed him down further. An encouraging groan from deep in the hacker’s chest made Bond’s hand clench in the ridiculous mob of his hair and pull. The teeth set even deeper, drawing a gasp from Bond.

“Holy hell, Q.” He shuddered as he felt that tongue pressing against the trapped skin and muscle. “Holy bloody hell.”

Q hummed, and slid his free hand down Bond’s bare torso, avoiding the major injury but pressing inquisitively at bruises and scrapes, each press of those fingers drawing another hitched breath, gasp or moan from Bond’s lips. After a side track to trace the agent’s rib cage and abdominals, Q finally reached the buttons of his trousers. He deftly undid the button and zip, and reached inside to massage Bond’s fully erect prick through the fabric of his pants. Bond’s hips jerked, which set Q’s teeth differently, and the two completely separate sensations made the man god damn _whine_ with lust.

“Q, you son of a bitch. Fucking let me up.”

He rocked his hips forward to try to move, and the grip on his cock tightened. Q hummed and bit even harder, and Bond felt his heart leap as adrenalin flooded his system. _Almost bordering on too much, Q._ He trembled and cursed, his hips stuttering and jerking against that soft hand on his pants, on his cock. Hands that have never killed, save for with a keyboard and a command prompt. Hands that have never seen combat except through a computer monitor. But as his own hand tightened to the point of bruising on the back of Q’s neck and shoulder, he knew that these hands were just as dangerous as his, and they were going to take him apart. Far from hating the realisation, he welcomed it, loved it, but he didn’t want to give up without a fight. The hand on Q’s neck slid up to his hair, and Bond yanked hard, pulling his teeth forcibly away from his neck. Immediately, blood rushed to the bite, and it stung. Bond savoured the feeling like he’d savoured the taste of the whisky, and his whole body shivered as he held the hacker at bay. He tipped his head back against Q’s shoulder, the one he was still holding, and looked up at the messy genius.

“My turn, you crazy pup.” He licked his lips, and the wickedly decadent moan that Q let out on the flutter of his eyelids went straight to Bond’s cock. He felt the hard pulse, felt pre-come seep into his pants and slide against his hip, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever heard. He swiftly stood, not relinquishing his grip on the younger man’s hair, and rounded the chair, pulling Q into a hard embrace and an even harder kiss. Tongues intertwined, warred with each other, and Q bit at Bond’s lips, not quite drawing blood yet, but the Double O knew there would be. It was expected when two obvious tops crashed together like this. It was a fuckin’ warzone, and he thrilled at the chance to tear Q apart at the same time as the genius made him fall apart.

_This was going to be glorious._

****  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: The RUSSIAN, for fuck's sake, don't murder me if it's wrong. I used Google Translate, then had to do it phonetically, and everyone knows that Google is correct ALL THE TIME. So. If it is wrong, if it is nonsense, if I ended up insulting someone's grandmother, for the love of all that is holy and good in this world TELL ME.
> 
> I don't want to be murdered for Google's fuck up, yeah?

Q could feel himself drowning in the demanding, possessive kiss. This was all Bond right now. He relaxed into the rhythm of tongue and teeth and rode the tide of pleasure. The agent’s trousers hung onto his hips by the good graces of good engineering, so Q helped them along a bit, flicking light fingers over the beltless waistband and sliding it down over muscular thighs without breaking the rather breathtaking kiss. He tilted his head a bit, angling for a deeper thrust with his tongue while he got a good look at the brilliantly bruising bite he’d given his agent. He brought one hand back up to stroke lightly at the mark, and Bond’s whole body jerked against him in reaction. Q closed his eyes again in lieu of blinking in a sort of shock. _Lovely. Just lovely._ He nipped at Bond’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood, which he lapped up readily, not concerned about blood borne pathogens. Bond was clean. And as the man in Q’s arms bit back, he could only think that he was clean too. So if this turned a bit bloody, it was perfectly alright.

Too bad he hadn’t thought ahead and brought his knife. Then again, he wasn’t sure how Bond would react to that. It could end very badly for both of them.

He drew back from the kiss, letting Bond try to follow him until he pressed a finger to Bond’s lips - and that finger was immediately engulfed in a hot, wet mouth and Q shivered in desire.

“Good Lord, Bond, you’re amazing like this,” he breathed as Bond suckled on his index finger, his wriggly tongue curling and stroking along the digit and flicking at the tip. Q could feel it right on his prick, the ebb and flow of that amazingly talented tongue. He throbbed with need, and he reached down with his free hand as Bond grasped his occupied one and pushed the middle finger in alongside the index and - “Fuck, Bond!” Q gasped as Bond’s other hand cupped him through his work trousers, kneading and stroking with a gentle touch. His large, calloused hand moved up and down, pressing against his bollocks, sliding up along his shaft, digging into the sharp bone of his hip; all the while, his mouth moved back and forth on his fingers, sucking and stroking with that fucking tongue, God! He was quaking, his body thrumming with the high voltage jolts of animal lust. “Fucking hell!”

Bond’s ice blue eyes were darkened, pupils blown and shining with a fire Q himself has never seen, but was certain had been turned on many a woman - _and now, I suspect, many a man, too_ \- and Q had to take a breath because my God, the lust in those eyes.

His fingers left that delectable mouth with a pop that brought to Q’s mind nights of wanking out his frustrations in Uni when he couldn’t find a partner who’d take him seriously when he told them to fucking suck him off, watching porn after porn of blonde women taking it and dark haired men like himself gagging to be fucked against the wall like a wanton slut. But Bond was not a fading beauty. He was a predator, like Q, and he was a top like him too. This was going to be interesting. Q rested his wet fingers along Bond’s strong jaw and bent in for a quick bite of a kiss, and whispered against his lips, “I want you to suck my cock, James.”

Bond growled deep in his chest, possibly unconsciously, and Q suddenly worried that he’d read this wrong, so very wrong. _Maybe he didn’t mind the kissing bit. Maybe he didn’t mind the rough bites. But perhaps he didn’t want to go further? Or maybe he sure as hell wasn’t going to be ordered to do it, but it wasn’t an order, was it? Q wasn’t a Dom, he was just a man who wanted to be in control..._

“With pleasure, Q.” He licked the tip of Q’s finger again. “I’ll suck you down and make you scream, but after that I’m going to be fucking you until you can’t speak except to beg me to let you come again.”

“OhmyGODyes.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a sprawl. _Oh, thank God._ He was alright with reciprocating the relinquishing of power, as long as someone got down on their knees...

His eyes followed Bond’s head down as the man knelt down in front of him and slowly undid his trousers, running his hands up along Q’s hips and lower torso, pulling the shirt out of the waistband and tugging at it.

“Take this off.”

With a smirk, Q obeyed, and once the button down and the vest shirt were gone, he dropped his hands to Bond’s shoulders. Before they went any further, he needed to know - “Can I fuck your mouth?”

Bond glanced up from pulling Q’s trousers over his hips. “I’d rather you not.”

“Okay.” He nodded, and Bond smirked and leaned forward to mouth at Q’s prick through his dark blue pants. Q’s hands went taunt on the older man’s shoulders as he shuddered. “Bloody fuck, James!”

Calloused hands slid over smooth thighs and hips to finger the elastic waistband and pull it down, pulling it out slightly to let his cock flex up and not get caught on the way down. Before the pants reached mid-thigh, Bond’s hot mouth was on his shaft, running wet lips and an even wetter tongue along the veins and foreskin, making Q groan. The sound warbled out of suddenly constricted lungs; he couldn’t seem to get enough breath in them to make a proper noise. Bond’s strong fingers bit into his thigh muscles, gripping tight enough to bruise, making Q shudder and moan. His own hands gripped even tighter, his knuckles whitening as he bit out a strangled sound that could have been Bond’s name, but wasn’t much more than a consonant that warbled over three octaves as Bond shifted and took him into his mouth completely.

“Oh, Bond, God, hell, bloody hell!” He finally managed to string something resembling a sentence together - _well, it contained a noun, damn it!_ \- , only to be shocked into stuttering incoherence again as Bond, hands still wrapped around Q’s legs, swallowed him down until the agent’s nose pressed against the muscle just above Q’s groin. “Jes-fuckin-hnngGOD.” His body jerked with the need to thrust, but he was going to honor Bond’s wishes, damn it, even if it killed him. He forced his eyes to stay open as he looked down at his agent, and found the man staring up at him, eyebrows crooked in amusement even as his shiny lips were wrapped prettily around the base of Q’s cock.

“H-oh my G-god,” Q stuttered out, staring at that fucking indecent sight. Bond smirked - _how the hell did he manage that?_ \- and swallowed around the head of the hacker’s cock, his throat working hard and his eyes closing around the sensation. Q’s heart leapt into his own throat as he whimpered and moaned in absolute blind pleasure. _God, if this bastard lets me, I am sucking him brainless before he fucks me._ Just the thought of it drove a white hot spike of lust straight down his spine, and he jerked hard, harder than before, and Bond moved with it, and smoothed his hands up the front of Q’s thighs as he pulled off enough to get a good deep breath in, then pushed back down. His killing hands danced along Q’s hipbones as a string of saliva dribbled down Bond’s chin and dropped onto his bare thigh. They slid around to cup Q’s arse as Bond swallowed again, harder this time, and Q’s moan was shockingly loud and wanton. _Oh, fuck, who’s the slut now?_ His breath shuddered out, hitching and riding on the tail ends of high pitched moans and hums that were the only sort of vocalizations that his brain could process. Words were lost to him, language? What is language? The only things in his world was his shaking body, Bond’s hot mouth wrapped around his aching prick, and the trigger finger working its way into the cleft of his arse.

Suddenly, that mouth and the finger were gone, and Q growled in dismay, until both of Bond’s arms wrapped around his knees and he went toppling backwards, nearly braining himself on the steel framework of the horrid chair his brother had bought him years ago. The air left his lungs en masse, and he couldn’t take in another breath because just like that his trousers and pants were gone, the tub of Vaseline was open next to his hip, and Bond’s mouth was back on his cock, only at this angle he could get much deeper.

“Oh f-f-fucking HELL!” Q yelped as Bond swallowed around his cock again and that trigger finger found his entrance. He didn’t bother to look into the agent’s eyes as he glanced up, a question settled in those wide eyes. Q shifted his hips and found the tip of that finger all by himself, wiggled, and bore down, the tip of Bond’s finger slipping into his hole. “Oh, yes. God, yes.” He locked eyes with Bond. “Do it.”

Bond’s eyes turned wild, and he pushed in, the finger sliding in perfectly, so brilliantly, and Q mewled with the pleasure of it all. His brain blinked off for a few seconds as it tried to parse the suction on his cock and the slight burn and pressure of the finger in his arse, and yes, this was it, this was where he wanted to be. Bond’s head started moving, his tongue slicking up and around the head of his cock, then back down to press hard at the base. Q’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he whimpered again, body twitching and jerking as Bond worked both his mouth and his hand. One leg hooked itself over Bond’s shoulder, digging a heel into the hard muscles at his back and Q keened as Bond crooked his finger in search of Q’s rather elusive prostate. He tried to string together some words to let Bond know that it was most likely a pointless gesture; no one’s been able to find it. “Bond,net, prosto yebat' menya pal'tsami , pozhaluysta, prosto yebat' menya! ”

Bond’s eyes went wide, and he pulled off Q’s prick with a wet smack, his lips plumped and red and slick with saliva. “Say that again.”

Q blinked, his brain scrambling to think in English. “Don’t. Just.. fuck me, God, fuck me with your fingers...” His eyes fluttered closed as Bond pushed another finger in alongside the first.

“Say it again. In Russian.” Bond’s voice was demolished, he sounded so wrecked that Q could barely process anything past the sound of his voice. He jerked and shook, body overwhelmed with sensation.

“Net, prosto yebat’ menya pal’tsami. Pozhaluysta...prosto yebat’ menya.” Q moaned and quivered as the fingers inside him scissored and thrust hard, all the way to the flat of Bond’s hand. “Yeshche odin palets , lyubov'.”

Bond grinned, wolfish and fierce. “Another finger?”

“Fuck!” Q shuddered. “Da.”

He pulled his hand out and obliged Q, setting his ring finger alongside the other two. When he pushed back in, Q wrapped the hand not currently scrabbling at the steel bars of the chair around his cock and whined so loudly that Bond seemed to count it as a scream. He bent over Q’s panting face, his quivering body, and licked into his mouth, murmuring little things in Russian at him, and then, in English, “I’m going to fuck you now, you gorgeous fucking beauty. You brilliant thing. I’m going to ruin you.”

Q nodded manically. “Please.” He couldn’t believe how easy it was for Bond to break him down. He suckled at Bond’s tongue and mewled up at him, all too willing to drop all control and let this crazy fucker - who ran after the London underground and used construction equipment to rip open trains and asked for an high explosive for a tooth instead of cyanide even though one good bite would blow his fuckin’ head off and played games with a mad man - let this man fuck him into next century. All he had to do was make it completely worth it. Q arched up beneath Bond and rolled his hips, shifting the fingers inside him and rubbing his leaking cock up against the man’s belly muscles, leaving a drool of pre-come behind. On the next roll, Bond crooked his fingers and - “Holy Mother of FUCK gah fuck jes -” A supernova blew up in his brain and ran down all of his nerves, and he jerked like a live wire. “Wha-”

The wide grin on Bond’s face told him exactly what it was. Q shakily smirked up at him. “Ah...hello prostate.”

Bond laughed, then kissed him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond murmured and licked at Q’s ear, mouthing along the shell and touching spots where there once were piercings - _a punk, once? or what?_ \- and ran his free hand along his prominent, heaving rib cage, dancing his fingers along the bone and muscle he found there. He’d once thought this body to be scrawny, weak and breakable under the slightest strain. But as he thrust three fingers into Q and rode the rhythmic undulation and pushing of his body, Bond knew better, oh, did he know better now. Q was a greyhound, a dancer, all whipcord and piano string and razor blade and marble, a sculpture so finely detailed but incredibly tough. And as the genius’s breath whined out of him, those thin fingers dug furroughs into his back and scalp. _Oh. Speaking of artwork_ \- “Turn over, Q.”

The flash of desire in the young man’s eyes damn near set him on fire, and Bond growled at him. He withdrew his fingers carefully, to avoid undue injury, and as Q rolled over, the Double O watched. The smooth, cat-like agility that lent itself to his body was on full display as he twisted, rolling his hips over on the carpeting first, then the torso contorting to reveal - “Fuck me...oh, that’s gorgeous, Q.”He couldn’t keep his jaw shut, nor could he stop one of his hands from reaching over to trace the black and blue lines leading up his spine from the tailbone all the way to the last cervical vertebrae. “Circuitry.” Rigid greys and blacks made up the connections, and sharp code ran in the background over the dip of his lower back, outlined in lighter greys. His eyes strayed back up the stunning expanse of white and marked skin until his gaze halted on Q’s nape, where he found more markings just under the hair. He leaned over the man’s body and nuzzled at the apparent android-like hookups inked into the sensitive skin at the base of his skull, and Q arched hard under him, his arse pressing up into Bond’s hips and prick, making stars spark behind his eyes. “You are a marvel, Quartermaster, a true marvel.” He nipped hard at the ink, drawing a gasp from the writhing body beneath him.

“Oh, for the love of God, Bond, fuck me!” Q panted into the carpet and chased the words with a moan as his hips hitched, dragging his cock along the scratchy pile. Bond smirked against his neck and licked, dragging his tongue down Q’s spine, drawing a wet line along the main lines of his tattoo. His chest hitched in laughter as Q started to actually plead. “James, please, oh Jesus, just fucking put it in me, you son of a bitch...” His voice trailed away into a quivering sigh as Bond’s tongue lapped at each dimple of his lower back, and lapped at his tailbone, flicking against the skin there, then dipping lower. The sighed turned into a full throated groan when that wriggly little thing found his hole, and Bond rode the buck of Q’s hips and groaned himself when he saw that the hacker was still loose, still open for him. His prick jerked as arousal gripped him. He kicked ineffectually at his trousers and pants, finally shedding them entirely as he bent forward to taste his Quartermaster.

The first lick was amazing; soft, soft skin and the leftover lubricant jelly slipping against the tip of his tongue, strong muscle clenching at him, Q humming and moaning into the tense muscle of his outstretched arm and pushing his hips up into Bond’s attentions. The agent nudged Q’s knees a little further apart, spreading him open so that he could push in, dragging wetly all around the loosening hole, listening to the hacker’s breathless pleas and hitched moans. Bond slithered a hand up the inside of Q’s thigh, calloused fingers brushing lightly at the man’s bollocks and traveling further up to bury three fingers back into that beautiful hole. Q whimpered and sobbed with need as Bond licked around the base of his fingers and the skin stretched around them. “Fuck - Bond, God, please...”

Bond continued for a minute, just savoring the feeling of Q clenching around his fingers, his hips rolling and essentially fucking himself on Bond’s hand. Every couple of strokes, his index finger would bump Q’s prostate and the hacker would hiss and keen and his abdominals would twitch. Bond finally withdrew his fingers, certain that he himself would explode if he didn’t fuck Q into the floorboards this very bloody instant. He reached up and over Q’s hip to reach for the tub of jelly. He scooped a good amount into his palm as his other hand ran up and over the intricate designs on Q’s skin. God, he was obsessed with the ink. _Now that I know about it, I won’t be able to keep my mind off of it._

“It - ah! - glows in b-blacklight, too, James...”

Bond blinked at the intrusion into his inner monologue. “Huh?” he murmured against Q’s arse.

Q propped himself up on on one elbow and looked back at Bond, and jerked in awareness. “Holy Mother of God, James, the sight of you... I said, it glows in - “ He jerked again and moaned in delight as Bond lapped again at his hole “ - blacklight. I have UV ink in there, too.”

“Come shows up under black light.” Bond noted. “I’m fucking you in a club somewhere next time.”

“Oh, yes.” Q shuddered as the agent’s breath tickled him in places he’d forgotten about. “Bloody hell yes.”

Bond smirked at him, and pushed his tongue in as far as it would go. His hand retracted from the jar and he wrapped his slick hand around his cock, moaning into Q as he worked at himself. And then he got an idea. As Q pushed his hips up again, Bond dragged his nails hard against his side and moved his tongue so he could nip at the rim of Q’s entrance.

“H-hohmyGODBOND!” Q’s hands clawed into the carpeting as he screamed and shook, and he dropped his head to the floor. “Fuckin’ HELL. That’s it! No more!” He shoved up, dislodging Bond.

Bond blinked for a second and settled on his haunches, hand still wrapped around his prick, worried that he’d done the wrong thing, _but what about his fuckin’ NECK; for God’s sake, the little shit’d damn near bitten clean through!_ He’d feel that for _weeks_! His train of thought cut off immediately as Q turned and crawled into his lap, digging his fingers - _so strong_ \- into his back and raking the nails down, sparking a fire in his nerves. Bond growled as his back arched. Q bit down hard on his collarbone when he reached the small of the agent’s back, and Bond bit down a scream of his own. “Fuck!”

Q let up on the bite and looked up at him, a dangerously sinful glint in his eyes. “And next time I’m bringing my blade, Bond.”

As if his nerves weren’t already overtaxed, another spike of pleasure rushed through him. “Holy shit.” He did not know that about his Quartermaster, he did not know that the kid - _MAN_ \- indulged in...that. “Holy shit.”

Q smirked. “Fuck me, Bond. Right now.”

“With pleasure.” His brain back online, Bond snaked his hand into Q’s wavy hair again - _fucking impossible hair_ \- and pulled him away and pushed him down to the carpet again, pulling his hips around to align him somewhat to the level he needed him at. Q chuckled darkly.

“There’s a perfectly good mattress over in the corner.”

“It’s on the floor, you bastard. We are already on the floor. Why bother?”

“My knees, you dolt.”

Bond bent over his back and bit down on his shoulder, making Q yelp. “Fuck your knees. You wanted this.”

“God help me, I did, didn’t I? I still do. Well? Get on with it, then.” He flopped a hand backwards.

Bond huffed out a laugh. “Impatient little shit.” He shifted Q’s hips again, and the hacker angled his back so that his arse was sticking up and the dimples in his back were highlighted against the bunched muscles in his lower back. And that fucking tattoo...Bond took a breath to steady himself as he brushed against Q’s hole with still slick fingers, pushing into him with two of them to make sure he was ready. The raspy groan of pleasure that rumbled out of the genius told him he was fine. Then it was just a matter of lining up, pushing in...

_Oh God yes._

“Ooooooh...” Q moaned deep in his chest, a sound Bond could fuckin’ feel through his whole body, the vibrations running though the two inches of cock he’d already sunk into that sweet heat. His thighs and back trembled as he waited. Waited for the cue...

“Oh, bloody hell, Bond, just get in me already!”

 _There it was_.

He pulled out until just the head of his prick rested inside the ring of muscle, then shoved forward, ramming his entire length into Q. The man yelped and yowled beneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head and hands flexing against the carpet as he shook under the strain. Bond froze, just short of fully seated, and ran his hands soothingly along Q’s shuddering sides, tracing the - _oh, holy hell, he’d drawn blood!_ \- scratches on the one side lightly to provide a counterpoint to the burning Q must be feeling right now. _Shit, I should have been slower, much slower. Damn it._ He didn’t want to shift too much, in case Q was in pain. Was he in pain? Damn it.

“Are you alright?”

Q took a shaky breath, and Bond felt the moment the genius calmed beneath him and relaxed. “Oh, yes. I’m golden.” His breath shattered on a moan. “Just give me a moment.”

“Take all the time you need, love.” And there. He said it. The word he’d been avoiding this whole time, the word Q first blurted out in a stream of Russian. Love. Even Q stilled under the power of that one word. Bond was sunk. He was scuppered, and there was nothing he could do about it, with his cock buried in Q’s tight arse. Fuck.

Q’s breathing turned tidal, deep and filling and shifting him where he was surrounding Bond, and they both moaned with the sensations. Finally, the stiffened line of Q’s back relaxed into a comma, and he rolled his hips up and tested the slide of them together. Bond bit his lip to hold back an absolutely wrecked groan.

“Oh, yes,” Q moaned. “Yes, this is...oh, god, perfect. Now, bloody hell, Bond, right now.”

Bond didn’t hesitate. His hips pushed forward, and Q let out a surprised squeak as he finally buried himself to the hilt. “Jesus Christ, there was MORE?”

He couldn’t help it. He started to laugh, the vibrations causing Q to shiver. “You got a bit tight there, so I couldn’t - “

“Shut the hell UP!” Q bucked back, his plush arse pressing into Bond’s hips. “No talking, just fuck me. Now.”

“God, you are impatient.” Bond ran his hands along his sides again, raking lightly down and settling them on Q’s hips, finally grabbing them the way he’d envisioned earlier. Q swallowed a groan. “Fine.” He pulled his hips back again, and snapped them forward, a quick motion that seemed to push the air from Q’s lungs in a squeak again. Bond smiled at the sound. _God, I love that noise out of him._ He did it again, and was rewarded with not a squeak but a full throated yelp that time. Again, and the yelp turned to a cry of pleasure. Another thrust had Q dropping his front all the way to the floor, his shoulder blades standing out in stark relief as he pressed his chest to the carpet and let out what sounded like a sob. Soon, Bond had built up to a steady pace that had Q bouncing off his hips with each thrust and a steady stream of cries and moans and curses spilling from slack lips as he rolled his head against his forearm and struggled to take in air. Bond’s own breath broke on half-voiced encouragements and growls as he took Q, fucking hard into him, bottoming out on each thrust. He could feel Q fluttering around him, trembling with the strain. A few moments later, Bond cursed as Q clenched hard around him.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck fuck fu - James, shit, I’m -” Q gasped, and whined. “I’m there, fuck, I’m there, come on, fuck it out of me _please_...”

Bond picked up the pace, brain shorting out as Q spasmed around him and threw his head back on a primal scream as his orgasm hit him like a freight train. Bond held out as long as he could, but finally succumbed to his own building release as Q sobbed out the last strains of his pleasure and melted. His vision greyed out as pulse after pulse of unadulterated pleasure gripped him hard, and his heart felt like it was going to burst. His body shuddered to a halt and he slumped down onto Q’s heaving back, completely spent and exhausted, and settled for just existing in the moment, listening to the thundering of his Quartermaster’s heart slowing to a quick patter. He gathered the puddle of hacker/genius/mad hatter into his strong arms and held him tight, and tipped them both over onto their right sides.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short final chapter :/

Once Q could actually feel his extremities again, he blinked and rolled his head back to lay it against Bond’s neck. The agent was wrapped around his body like an overly clingy octopus, and he was perfectly alright with it, because bloody hell that was brilliant. Supernova brilliant. Definitely satisfied. “James?” He winced at his own voice, raspy and weak. _Well, of course. I just got buggered blind, of course I’m going to sound like it!_

A hum from behind him, and a sharp nip at the base of his skull where his Ghost in the Shell - inspired tattoos lay. “Mm?”

“Do you like my tattoos?”

“Mm-hm.” More nips, and licking, tasting the ink, almost. “Love them.”

“Really.” Q smirked.

“Yep. Also like that you spend money on good alcohol.”

His eyes slipped closed. “Life is not worth living if you don’t have good alcohol to drink.”

A smile was pressed to his skin. “This is true.”

Q sighed, and snuggled in, pressing up against Bond’s entire front. They were sweaty, sticky with cold come, and he was sore in spots he couldn’t remember being sore in before. He pressed tentative fingers to the tight lines of his hips, relishing the slight burn that the new fingertip bruises there caused. The bloody scratches on his side would need a seeing to before he crashed on his bed. _Oh._ “James?”

“Yes?”

“I was just thinking...” And that’s as far as he got, because teeth sank into his nape. “FUCK.”

Bond chuckled. “You were thinking? After sex? Apparently I didn’t do a good enough job.”

Q scowled at the wall in front of where they lay. “Prick.”

“I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“Speaking of that. I was thinking, perhaps, next time, the bed would be a better place for sex.” He huffed out a breath as the agent’s arms tightened around him. “I’m not kidding. I know what the pattern on my horrid carpet is, I don’t need it indented into my chest.”

“Fine. But I’m getting you a frame for that thing.”

Q shook his head. “No, I don’t want one. I don’t need it.”

“What? Why? You’re an adult, why are you sleeping on the floor?” Bond sounded incredulous, and short of twisting around to look at him, which he didn’t feel like doing because he was comfortable, he couldn’t tell if Bond was smiling or not.

“I tend to roll out of bed in my sleep.”

Another chuckle rumbled against his back. “Seriously?”

“You say one bloody thing about railings and so help me God, Bond, I will rig the next radio you get to set off that fucking tooth.”

Now Bond laughed outright, and Q finally turned in his arms to see his face. The happy grin was something Q never really saw before. It was as beautiful as it was rare. Q grinned right back.

The agent - 007, the deadliest agent they had, and the most successful, and the man completely at Q’s disposal - looked down at him with something akin to love. No. It could be love. Oh. _Oh, I am in trouble now. And trouble has never looked so good._ His grin lightened into a smirk, and he wiggled out of Bond’s embrace. “Let go of me. Hold on. Let me go get something.”

He pushed to his knees, and reached over to the bottle of Glenfiddich. Miraculously, it was still upright, though he didn’t recall even putting it down. He snatched it up and returned to kneel in front of his agent. His lover. His Double O.

“Otkroyte rot , lyubov'. YA khochu dat' tebye syurpriz.”

Bond’s eyes sparked. “A surprise? For me?” His eyes roved up and down Q’s torso. “Whatever could it be?”

Q smirked, and took a long swig from the bottle. “Want to find out?”

“Oh, God yes.”

Q leaned forward and kissed him, and Bond’s tongue immediately flicked out to lick at the scotch still lingering on his lips. Q’s body thrilled, knowing exactly where that tongue had been.

“How about round two?” Q murmured.

Bond smirked against his lips. “I’m up for it.” He snatched the bottle from the hacker’s hands. “My turn to feed you.”

"God, you are really a slut for Glenfiddich, aren't you?" 

 


End file.
